


Boy Wonder

by hehasbalrogsocks



Category: Pod Save America (RPF), Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthdays, Blowjobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Wood, Pining, Rough Sex, Surprises, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hehasbalrogsocks/pseuds/hehasbalrogsocks
Summary: Ronan's running off to follow a story, knowing it will make him miss Jon's birthday. Atonement ensues.





	Boy Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the non-specific near future.

The fact that Ronan was younger by several years didn’t keep Jon from feeling like a petulant child being scolded by his beleaguered mother every time “they” conflicted with ambition. The feeling was driven home by the fact that his feet dangled a foot above the ground from where he sat, perched on a stool at Ronan’s breakfast bar. He sulked while Ronan repacked the Chinese food take out that had been their dinner. Ronan always bustled while he talked. He paced the house while he chatted on the phone. He wore holes in the carpet as he stalked back and forth and talked out voice-overs for his reports. His busy energy often emerged in tense moments, which only served to make Jon more anxious. Ronan was methodical, and the pacing seemed to fuel the process as he walked laps in his office, writing every word “in the air” by speaking it out loud, revising, and re-revising until each sentence was perfectly formed. Jon was a messier writer. He waited until the last second of the last minute and rarely ever revised. His writing was better on the first try than most people’s 3rd or 4th draft. At least that’s what he insisted to himself. He looked up at Ronan, watching him wander from the sink to the fridge to the counter to the trash and back, round and round and round the space like an especially blond and handsome carousel horse. He’d spaced out on the narrative for a moment, but he was reasonably sure that Ronan hadn’t taken a breath.

“…and you know I’d tell you all the details if I could. I wish it were any other time, I really do. I’m always doing this to you and I hear your frustration…” Ronan was a pain in the ass to argue with. Everything was backed up with two or three pieces of evidence. It made Jon wish he’d actually let his mother win on the law school front.

“…furthermore, the public cares about this right now and if I don’t do this now, everyone will get swept away by something else and –” Ronan’s monologue was halted when Jon raised one hand to stop him. “It’s fine.” 

“What?”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Jon repeated. “You don’t have to convince me. You’re right and it’s fine.” Jon rested his hands on top of the breakfast bar, examining his nails. They were looking rough. At some point he’d started biting them again… he didn’t quite remember when. Ronan was giving him the same kind of infuriating look that one gets from a blinking cursor – _Well then?_ blinks the cursor, _did you have something to say?_ Cursor-Ronan tilted his head and pursed his lips. His “this isn’t the full story,” face. Jon closed his eyes so that Ronan wouldn’t see him roll them.

“I want you to go and do the interviews. You can come celebrate my birthday with me anytime and it will be just as good.” It didn’t even sound believable to Jon. Ronan narrowed his eyes. Jon winced. He anticipated the dissertation on emotional honesty that was for sure about to come pouring out of Ronan, but it didn’t come. Ronan closed his mouth and nodded curtly, as if accepting this answer from Jon was a manual override of his bullshit detector. Relief washed over Jon. He must remember to offer praise to the Patron Saint of Miraculous Homosexual Silence for his fortune. First he’d have to research who the Patron Saint of Miraculous Homosexual Silence _was_ but details were not his strong suit. He’d ask Jon or Tommy. They kept track of that kind of thing. 

“What are you smiling about?” Ronan’s tone was suspicious. Jon hadn’t realized he’d been smiling.

 “Nothing. Just thinking about Catholicism.”

Ronan’s face went through a series of expressions and eventually landed on exasperation. “You’re diverting.” He pointed out, sliding his glasses up his nose.

A shrug. “I’m disappointed.” Jon’s expression looked shocked and betrayed at his own sudden honesty, “You’re the only one who I really care about spending my birthday with and you’re too busy for me. I respect your work, and I think it’s important, so I really think you should do it. I even know that it’s not personal. Also, I am obviously _way_ too old to make a big deal out of my birthday but… but I...” Oh, where the hell were all his fancy words now? Jon had a rant ready to go at a moment’s notice about just about any topic under the sun but Ronan sparkled with truth and justice and Jon was completely unable to resist hemorrhaging realness when it came to him. It was witchcraft, he was positive. 

 “But you want me to make a big deal out of your birthday,” Ronan filled in. Jon usually yelled at him for putting words in his mouth, but in this case (as in most cases, if he was honest) Ronan was exactly right. In truth, nobody knew him like Ronan did. He wouldn’t let them. As it was, even Ronan knew too much. This simple truth gave Jon a perpetual sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t look up when Ronan spoke. He didn’t need to. Ronan’s gaze held a weight that he felt physically. He would make a very good librarian, shushing all with a single withering glance. Jon offered a silent, relenting nod in lieu of a verbal reply. Ronan sighed in a way that made Jon scowl. Nothing like feeling like he was being _put up with_ to sour Jon’s mood. “Do you have to go?”

 Ronan, sensing the building need for diplomacy, came around to Jon’s side of the breakfast bar and dragged the neighboring stool close enough that when he slid onto the seat, Jon was bracketed in the vee of his legs. “Jon,” He slipped his arms around Jon’s chest and leaned into him. Jon remained defiantly stiff in his arms. An act of rebellion to remind Ronan that he was capable of repelling his charms.

 “I don’t… _have_ to go,” Ronan said with little bitey kisses,  “But this interview… You know how long I’ve been waiting.”

 Jon did know. But he wasn’t done pouting. He imagined his body as a fortress, and the kisses that Ronan was running down his neck were flaming arrows and mortar grenades, attempting to weaken his defenses. The fact that stony bulwarks were historically not ticklish was making this a crappy metaphor. Fortresses did not get goosebumps. _Damn._ It took all the self-control in Jon’s body to shrug Ronan off. “That’s not fair,” Jon whispered, glancing back. They were both guilty of getting physical when they should be talking. After all, they only saw each other every few weeks. Why waste it squabbling when they could attempt to make up for all the sex they didn’t get to have the rest of the time? 

 Ronan hooked his chin over Jon’s shoulder and rewrapped his arms around his middle. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

 “Say it again, it gets me hot,” Jon replied with a snort.

 Ronan smiled slowly and pressed his lips to the shell of Jon’s ear, “You’re right,” he purred sexily. “And I swear I’m going to make this up to you. Say you believe me.”

 “I believe you,” Jon’s breathy reply had a lot to do with the fact that his earlobe was held captive between Ronan’s lips. Jon was a terrible fortress. 

***

 “Ow!” Jon stumbled into his pitch dark house after Tommy dropped him off. His non-surprise-surprise party (that he’d planned) was like, 93% perfect. Even if Ronan had been there (which he was not) it wouldn’t quite have made it to 100% perfect because he was not wearing the shirt he’d left with. Favs had told him to slow down on the custom cocktails (a Jon Lovett Iced Tea was just a Long Island with blood orange Diet Coke and Cointreau added for class). It was also delicious and he had had five of them. Well, four and a half if you count the one he threw up. Hence the different shirt. That still didn’t explain why the place was dark. He always left a light on.

 A sharp yap alerted him to the fact that he’d just squished his dog. “Pundit?” He whispered like he was trying not to wake his parents. “Is that you?” because she was going to stand up and answer in English. _Jesus._ “Is the power out?” Pundit did not reply, but the time (3:43 am) stared brightly from the rectangle in the corner of the microwave. “Huh.” He bumped his way through the house to the slider to let Pundit out into the backyard for her constitutional. He nearly leapt through the glass when the light in the kitchen slowly eased on of its own volition. There was no one in the room when he spun around.

 “Hello?” He called out, “Tommy?” Silence. He dug his phone out of his pocket and seized the broom from beside the refrigerator. The dustpan slipped off of the handle and clattered to the ground, startling him into a sort of silent, frenzied dance, hopping around from foot to foot for a few seconds before he brought himself under control. His heart was hammering and he was damp with sweat. It didn’t help that he was still so drunk he couldn’t reliably decipher if any of this was actually happening in real life. “Okay. Okay, I’m strong and big and very brave,” he whispered out loud to himself. The light in the entryway slowly came on and the dance was back, “I am so brave!” he told himself, a little louder, a little more desperate for his pep talk to work. “So, so brave. So brave and strong and I can...” the lights in the kitchen were off. Then the entryway. Then the kitchen was easing back on, followed by the entryway. Off, off. On, on. Off, Off. On, on. Jon carefully stepped into the entryway to see that the hallway light was now coming on in sequence. What. The. Fuck.

Jon cocked the broom back over his shoulder in his right hand, trying to open the Nest app on his phone with the other. He needed to see what was going on. Either the entire system had gone haywire or it was possessed by Satan. He wasn’t sure which annoyed him more. The lights continued to slide off and on in sequence. Jon never made tiny hands jokes about Donald Trump because he very much lived in a glass house when it came to that. His sister (Co-president of the Tiny-Hands Society) had purchased him a pop socket, a really cool one with a galaxy on it but he’d adamantly refused to use it. Who needed to be able to type one-handed? Certainly not him. Certainly not. He dropped his phone. _Fuck._ He looked both ways, up and down the hallway before carefully scooping it up. Back the way he’d come, the kitchen and entryway lights were now mutedly aglow. His bedroom light was now alternating with the hallway, on, on. Off, off. On, on. Off, off. He crept to his bedroom door and peered cautiously inside. On, on. Off, off. The next time the light in the bedroom came on, it stayed on low. Jon stepped cautiously into the room, phone in the crook of one elbow and broom at the ready. The music came from all around, blessings on the house of _Sonos._ It was so faint at first, he thought he was having a fear-induced hallucination. _Corcovado_ slowly emerged into the space. Fear drained away to concentration, and then to awareness.  The electronic fireplace sparked to life, casting warmth and flickering orange light around the room. He turned around slowly, noticing for the first time the single fat, pink peony slumped dramatically in a heavy enough vessel to support all that drama, and a box of chocolate ganache from Mariebelle in Soho. There was a peacock green envelope next to the vase. The card inside was beautiful, lush, cottony stock pressed with violets. The ink was green to match the envelope. He knew the handwriting immediately. And the stationary.

_Because I know you think that roses are pedestrian._

 His phone began to ring. The custom ringtone was out of time with the music in the room, but unmistakably, Jon recognized _Corcovado_. He swiped to answer the call, picking up without a greeting,

 “I am not so presumptuous that I would ever think that this alone would make up for missing a High Holy Day… but I thought you’d think I’d made a respectable start.”

Jon toed the broom handle with his sneaker. When had he dropped it? He still hadn’t said anything when he slowly sank to the corner of the bed. 

“Jon?”

“I’m here. I’m just… _Ronan,”_ Jon looked around at everything again. “How?”

“I had accomplices. Tommy and Emily were fully involved. There’s more but I’ll tell you later. Get on FaceTime and take off your clothes.” 

“I’m listening to you because I want to, not because you told me to.”

Knowing that he’d get nowhere at all if he didn’t let Jon have the last word, Ronan launched a FaceTime call. 

 *** 

They were just starting out on a long road trip, trying to cover some ground with the midterm elections looming. It had been a long time since Jon had been in the same city with Ronan. It was a miserable stretch with no obvious end. Result? Jon was in a shitty mood. He was supposed to room with Dan that trip -- whose dadvibes tended to chill him out --  but at the last minute, Howli had cleared her schedule and Jon was relegated to his own room. Normally he’d be just fine with that but he’d been anxious and needy, brittle as a fallen leaf. Just about everything felt like a boot hovering above, waiting to crush him into dust. Instead of letting his anxiety get the better of him completely, he opted to sleep almost constantly. If he was unconscious, he reasoned, at least he wouldn’t worry. As much.

 When the door to his hotel room squeaked open at some wretched hour before dawn, Jon barely registered it. He hardly stirred until the weight of a human dipped the untouched side of his bed made him actually take notice. Tommy and Favs routinely let themselves into his room on the road for various reasons but as of yet, no one had crawled into bed with him.  _T_ _heir_ loss. He slowly eased himself over to confront the interloper. His face was frozen in sleepy surprise.

“Hi,” Ronan said with a soft laugh, wasting absolutely no time sliding his hand up under the hem of Jon’s shirt and pressing the side of his thumb into his warm flank. Ronan’s hair was soft and undone, flat against his head. There was a little mark on the bridge of his nose where his glasses had been. The combination of that golden, baby fine hair and his spectacle-free face made Ronan look even younger than he was. Jon made a sound and scooped him close. He buried his face in the crook of Ronan’s neck and breathed him in. He smelled like airline travel and the world. Most importantly, he smelled like Ronan, which was perfect. Jon’s brain hadn’t properly booted up yet. The most important information was right in front of his face: Ronan was here, and everything felt a whole lot better. 

Jon put his hands under the back of Ronan’s soft, gray, Friend of the Pod t-shirt, letting the warmth of Ronan’s skin seep into his palms. He slid his hands down the slope of Ronan’s back and nudged the tips of his fingers into the back of the sweatpants he was wearing.

“What are you smiling about?” Ronan's eyes scanned Jon’s face, fixing his features to mirror Jon’s closed lipped smirk.

“I’m appreciating your lingerie,” Jon mumbled, playfully snapping the back of Ronan’s sweats.

“I was told by my accomplices that I’m not to keep you up all night. One of my sources said on background that they think you’re a tyrant when you haven’t had your beauty sleep and I’ve been told you have a phone interview at roughly the crack of dawn.”

“Who…?” Jon narrowed his eyes and poked the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nope. Not telling. Background.” Ronan booped his nose and then kissed his sleepy mouth.

“How dare –” Ronan cut him off with another kiss. “Shh. Come here. Sleep. I’m with you to the end of the tour.” He reached for Jon, and cuddled him against his own chest. Jon melted into him, soothed by the notion of getting to spend real time together. Ronan tenderly stroked Jon’s soft curls and hummed to him until he grew heavy and fell back to sleep.

~*~*~*~

Morning came fast. Ronan was still a couple time zones ahead, so he awoke naturally before the alarm. Jon was curled up on his side, facing Ronan. His face was slack, lips slightly parted, soft cheeks rough with stubble. Even asleep, there was tension in Jon’s brow. Despite his own best efforts, he could never really escape his worries; they even followed him to sleep. His hands were curled under his chin, and his hair was tousled and wild on the pillow. The covers were pulled up around him, leaving Ronan half exposed to the chilly hotel air. Ronan slid closer to Jon, nudging him over onto his back so that he would give up a wad of covers. Ronan slipped under the pre-warmed comforter, cozying up to Jon. Jon was a pretty sound sleeper and only mumbled and stretched in response to being rearranged, bending an arm and tucking his hand behind his head. He looked gorgeous like that. Ronan wanted to chomp on his bicep and dig his fingers into his hips, leaving signs on Jon’s body that Ronan was there and most importantly, that Ronan found him irresistible.  

It was easy enough to peel the hem of Jon’s shirt up to expose his tummy without waking him. Ronan ran an appreciative hand over the hard work Jon had been putting in at the gym. He was still slightly soft in a sexy way that Ronan was acutely attracted to, but he was looking amazing. The heat of Jon’s sleep-warmed skin was so hot it almost burned against Ronan’s cold fingertips. He slowly traced a chilly index finger back and forth along the soft cotton waistband of Jon’s sleep pants, considering. It was the way Jon’s tummy responded to the light touch of Ronan’s fingertip that made up Ronan’s mind for him. Ducking under the covers, Ronan drew the tip of his nose down Jon’s chest and belly, hands splayed over his hips. Leaving Jon’s pants in place for the time being, Ronan pressed his face to the bulge in his sweats. The musky, sleepy scent of him, and the heated presence of a lazy morning half-erection pressed between Ronan’s parted lips made him flush with wanting. _God._ Ronan’s thumbs hooked around the waistband of Jon’s pants and slowly eased them down over the arches of his hips, lifting the elastic up and over his cock so it could be free. Ronan was ravenously nuzzling his prize with eager, open lips when Jon peeled back the comforter. Ronan squinted up at him, with his hand curled protectively around the base of his cock. “Good morning,” Ronan’s voice was low and rough with lust. Ronan’s vision was terrible without glasses or contacts but his focus on the swollen head of Jon’s cock was laser sharp. He was trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes on Jon, who had a very amused expression on his face. Jon took in Ronan’s red face and tousled hair and ran the tip of his thumb over the corner of Ronan’s lips. “Good morning,” Jon liked the look on Ronan’s face. “What I love about you, Farrow, is you’re a real go-getter. Up with the sun – “

“Ugh shut up,” Ronan dove down on Jon’s cock, engulfing the length of him in one movement. Ronan didn’t usually do the deep throat thing. His gag reflex was unpredictable, but at that moment, all he wanted was for Jon to stop talking, and unlike most of the people who spent a lot of time with Jon Lovett, he knew where the off button was. The move was effective. Jon reached down and curled his fingers around a sweaty palmful of Ronan’s silky hair. The sound Jon made was so rough with unchecked need that Ronan tightened his hand possessively around the base and hollowed his cheeks on the way back up. So no, he really couldn’t make out more than a beige blur, but he kept his eyes on Jon’s face. He could extrapolate. The sounds helped. Jon was not quiet and it was one of his absolute favorite features of him. If he was completely honest with himself, he loved knowing that _he_ could do that to Jon. He’d just closed his eyes to focus on working his mouth hot and tight around Jon’s dick when Jon pulled him off by the hair. He blinked, red lips parted in surprise. “What?” he panted, licking his lips.

“Don’t… please don’t finish me off. I want you to fuck me. I missed you…” Jon barely had to get the words out before Ronan was nodding, pushing up on top of him, and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of bare skin along the way. Jon pushed him back long enough to wiggle out of his shirt, and yank Ronan’s off while he was at it. Ronan’s suits did a good job of giving him a shape, solid and masculine. With his clothes off, however, he was just a bit formless. He consistently referred to himself as “skinny fat.” He used to hold up pretty well next to Jon but not so much these days, as Jon spent much of his alone time doing CrossFit boot camps, while Ronan squeezed in a trip to the gym roughly biweekly. When Jon peeled his shirt up and over his head, Ronan actually blushed. He didn’t have time to linger in his body hang-ups though, because Jon’s mouth was back on his, pulling him close.

He could get lost kissing Jon. They’d been together for years but it was still a thrill. The first time they’d kissed it had almost been an accident. A series of signals misinterpreted, which resulted in Ronan surprising Jon with a kiss that landed a little off center. He could have died of embarrassment in the way the seconds stretched on unbearably between the inartful kiss and Jon’s reaction. Mercy shined upon him that day and the next thing he knew, Jon had seized him in his arms and kissed him for real so hard and passionate it left him breathless.  Every kiss since had been an electric experience which strengthened and fortified Ronan, leaving his lips tingling and his heart racing. It was not a surprise when Jon pulled back from kissing him, with his lips so red and swollen that Ronan immediately leaned in to kiss him again. Jon intercepted him, with his palm pressed to Ronan’s forehead, “You’re off on a tangent.” He reminded.

“Right,” To business then. He’d had the foresight to lay his bag within stretching distance of the bed. It was a minor feat of acrobatics to swivel his torso over the edge, leaving his legs on the mattress so that he could hang almost upside down, with all the blood rushing to his head and rifle through the pockets of his backpack in search of his shaving kit and the travel size bottle of personal lubricant therein. 

 “Your level of preparation never fails to impress me,” Jon said from his position ensconced on a pile of flat but numerous hotel pillows.

“If this is impressive, your bar is very low.” Ronan swung back up onto the bed, red-faced but with lube in hand. “I mean I could order the juiciest, most magnificent steak in the world but without a knife and fork it’s just messy and uncomfortable.”

“I’m not sure I care for your piece of meat analogy,” Jon squinched his face, unimpressed.

 “Accept my apologies for ruffling your delicate sensibilities.” Ronan unceremoniously peeled Jon’s pants the rest of the way off, flinging them clear of the bed. The look on his face when he combed his eyes over Jon’s naked body suggested that his carnivorous metaphor was more apt than even Ronan would care to admit.

“You have to get more naked than that,” Jon pointed out, drawing his tongue across his own bitten-red lower lip. The way Ronan was looking at him, it seemed plausible that he could have forgotten he’d need at least have to get his dick out. Ronan’s reaction to Jon’s reminder was delayed, but as soon as the words percolated into his consciousness, he was scrambling out of his pants and pressing against Jon skin to skin. _Finally._ They kissed until Jon whined needily and pushed him back. Jon’s eyes were black with lust, soft cheeks flushed pink. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll die.” Jon Lovett was never hyperbolic in the least.

 Ronan fumbled the preparation a little bit, shaking hands making a mess of the lube as he eased his fingers into Jon, pressing and pulling to open him up. Ronan was a sucker for sweet missionary sex with lots of kissing and banter. Jon went for that hard a lot of the time but there were moments where Jon needed Ronan to just _take him._ He needed a hard fuck, with no color commentary. The kind that lingered in his muscles for a few days after. “Ronan,” Jon rasped, voice thinning like he could hardly hold it together for him. “Please,”

 The moan was involuntary. The desperation in Jon’s voice went straight to his cock and sent a shiver cascading through Ronan’s limbs. Unceremoniously, he yanked his fingers out of Jon and leaned back onto his knees. “Over,” Ronan demanded and as Jon moved to comply, he gave his ass a slap hard enough to make it jiggle a little bit – A sight Ronan liked so much he did it again on the other side. The groan Jon let out in response told him he was on the right track. Making Jon wait was now intentional. Watching him squirm was his reward. His two large, red handprints framed Jon’s ass invitingly. Ronan knelt up behind him, intent on twisting the knife. He slid the thick head of his cock in slow motion over and back between Jon’s splayed cheeks. Jon’s breath hitched as he arched his back like a cat. Ronan made out goosebumps lifting the hairs on his arms. “ _Please_ ,” Jon sobbed. God that was hot. In his copious alone time, Ronan had subjected himself to punishing self-examination over how much he liked hearing Jon beg for his cock, and how much he liked giving it to him, hard. 

Ronan’s hands were his most classically masculine feature, big and sturdy, perfect for manhandling his man in a way he knew he loved. Ronan was aware enough of his own pretentiousness to admit to having referred to himself as “aesthete” with a straight face, and self-indulgent enough to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the way his hands looked on Jon’s back, his ass, cupped around his cock and balls. He loved to just _touch_ Jon. Everyfuckingwhere. And most importantly he loved to _watch._ In his own humble opinion, the way Jon’s ass looked when he squeezed with wide open palms was just about the most gorgeous thing. His grip was hard enough to linger in the hollows of Jon’s hips. 

Jon was hunkered down on his elbows with his cheek resting on his folded forearms and his ass in the air. He was totally brash about it, any embarrassment at his position was chased away by the intensity of his need. He was breathing out the occasionally wordless sound, desperate and shaking, working back towards the promise of Ronan’s cock pressed against his aching hole. 

“Pleaseplease _please_ pleaseplease.”

Ronan pushed in fast, telling himself it would be cruel to make Jon wait. He loved to get Jon all horny and strung out but he had never been able to bring himself not to make good on all the teasing. Jon’s patience and _performance_ were always rewarded. Now Jon was pitched forward onto his forehead, ass high. Ronan passed his palms over Jon’s hips and thighs, fingers digging into the flesh. He loved the way that Jon’s muscles twitched under his hands with the effort of staying upright under the pace of his thrusts.

Jon was vocal in the hottest way. He cried out like his soul had been saved when Ronan first fucked into him. Jon clearly felt that every single hitching roll of Ronan’s hips was worthy of a low moan, a breathy sigh, a breathless whisper of his name. He made Ronan believe it too. And if there was any doubt, Ronan ran his palm down Jon’s belly and seized his erection in one hand. Jon’s cock was turgid. It felt hot and almost too hard in Ronan’s hand. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” Ronan hissed into Jon’s ear, patting around on the bed for another dab of lube. He only made it a couple of strokes before Jon came sudden and intense, letting out a wet-sounding cry. The way his body shuddered and spasmed around Ronan’s cock was heaven on its own. Ronan worked through the muscular ripples of Jon’s orgasm and almost as soon as Jon tapered off, shaky and spent, Ronan muffled the cry of his own climax against the meat of Jon’s shoulder. In the moments after, Ronan eased them both on their sides, still connected at the root. Ronan wrapped his arms protectively around Jon, whispering soft praise against the shell of his ear until the sweat was cooling on their skin. They gloried in the sweet silence of satiety, taking refuge in the stillness that visited both of their busy minds while they still lay entwined. Ronan wasn’t sure how long it had been when Jon, evidently a little too chilly, reshuffled them gently to get under the covers together. When they came back together, Jon lay facing Ronan, sharing breath and kisses.  

They must have fallen asleep there, with Ronan wrapped nose to nose around Jon because the alarm startled them both awake before either was truly ready. Ronan got to Jon’s phone first and silenced it, before settling back down against Jon, stifling a yawn against the back of his hand. “So… what do you think? Are we square for missing your birthday?” He fixed his face in his best interpretation of “adorable puppy dog” and nipped at Jon’s thumb and then captured his hand between his.

Jon’s voice thinned as Ronan’s poofy lips advanced from finger to finger, nibbling on each in turn, “I’d say you’re off to a respectable start.” That look of mild but genuine surprise on Ronan’s face was extremely satisfying. He leaned in and pressed a smug little kiss to the middle of Ronan’s forehead. 


End file.
